


Anything to Get to You

by 17kylie_readsalot17



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, She's not, also a snake, crowley is a tired drunk, michael thinks she's an executioner, true angel form
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 12:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19991857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17kylie_readsalot17/pseuds/17kylie_readsalot17
Summary: Michael sighed heavily. “You were sentenced to death and yet walked out of heaven alive. I don’t care how you did it, you’re still wanted dead. Come visit me at head office, Aziraphale, or I’ll come to you. And given your present company, I don’t think you’d want that.” There was a meaningful pause that made Aziraphale stiffen, freezing in place. “Just know, there isn’t anywhere—not even his precious nebulas—that you can hide from me.”Michael was in Hell during Aziraphale's execution. She saw Crowley fail to be killed by Holy Water and heard that Aziraphale survived the Hell Fire and figures something is wrong with that. She wants Aziraphale dead, Crowley really doesn't, and Aziraphale wants Crowley safe and out of the way.





	Anything to Get to You

It had been nearly half a year since the world had ended. Summer ended just like Armageddon—quickly and with little fuss, to the surprise of everyone involved, as passed fall and began winter.

It was a nice January evening when, after dinner at a restaurant that wasn’t the Ritz and therefore didn’t deserve a namedrop in Crowley’s opinion, an angel and a demon returned to the demon’s flat just a little bit tipsy. This wasn’t a rare occasion, but more often than not, they ended up back at Aziraphale’s shop, which was far cozier than Crowley’s marble and concrete apartment. However, the bookstore’s HVAC had been on the fritz, and while it didn’t take much of a miracle to get it working again, Aziraphale hated making Crowley wait for it to warm up before he could shed the three layers of coats he had to wear during the winter.

So, on the other side of London, Crowley opened the door to his flat and held it for Aziraphale who smiled a little wider and thanked him a little louder than he would have if he hadn’t ordered that third bottle of wine at dinner. Crowley grinned in return and closed the door behind them. He realized halfway across the living room that he’d forgotten to lock it, but it just so happened to lock itself when he snapped his fingers quietly and followed Aziraphale to the couch.

The angel sat himself down with a soft sigh and rested his head on the back of the couch, looking up at Crowley, smile not going anywhere.

Wine had different effects on each of them. It made Crowley tired, so he was very much ready to climb into bed and sleep through the whole weekend. It made Aziraphale just a little bit bolder—just enough that sleep was no where near as tempting as joining the angel on the couch.

Aziraphale held out his hands, and Crowley set one knee on the couch and was about to take his hands when the phone rang.

When Crowley paused and looked over his shoulder towards his office, Aziraphale frowned and grabbed Crowley’s jacket before he could stand back up. “Oh, so you can never be bothered to answer the phone when _I_ call, but if it’s anyone else—”

“Wasn’t going to answer, angel,” Crowley interrupted, and swung his other leg over Aziraphale, knees pressed against his hips. “Never do.” His grin was sharp and Aziraphale leaned up to kiss him so he could watch it fall away and shift into something softer.

The phone finished ringing and Crowley pulled away from the kiss for a moment to listen for the voicemail, and Aziraphale pulled off his sunglasses, tossing them to the other end of the couch. But after his voice finished delivering his answering machine greeting, the caller hung up without leaving a message. Crowley just shrugged. _Telemarketers_.

He leaned back in, running his hands up Aziraphale’s arms until his fingers brushed the back of Aziraphale’s neck. It wasn’t a second after he’d kissed Aziraphale back that the phone began to ring again and Crowley let out a frustrated growl.

“Go answer it, or they’ll call all night,” Aziraphale said, chuckling softly and pushing Crowley out of his lap.

Crowley scowled but stood up from the couch, stormed to his office, and picked up the phone—all with a bit more dramatism than strictly necessary. “This is Anthony,” he said, turning around and sitting on the edge of his desk, twisting the cord up while he waited for a response.

“Hi Crowley,” a voice he knew he recognized—but given that he’d last heard it centuries ago, couldn’t place—drawled out from across the line with absolutely no static.

He already felt himself growing tense. He raised his shoulders and narrowed his eyes. “Uhh, yeah. That’s me. Who is this?”

“Oh, it hasn’t been that long, Crowley,” she said, a self-righteous tilt to her words. “It’s Michael.”

Crowley swallowed and twisted the cord tighter. “Longer than you might think,” Crowley said glancing across the room towards the door. The couch and Aziraphale were just out of sight, but not earshot. “How did you get this number?”

“You might remember Ligur and I were in contact for a few millennia, before you wasted him.” If Crowley’s throat hadn’t been so dry, he might have gulped. “He owed me a couple of favors for some information, so here we are.”

“Great,” Crowley said through clenched teeth. Then, hushed, “What do you want? I thought we agreed it’d be best if you left me be.”

“Oh sure, that was the deal wasn’t it.” She sounded just like Harriet Dowling did when she was incredibly fed up with Tad, and wanted him to know it without raising her voice. “Well I won’t bother you any longer then. Just put me on with Aziraphale.”

“Sorry. Haven’t seen him since Armageddon.”

Michael hummed, displeased. “Unfortunately I know Aziraphale better than to believe that. Put him on, Crowley.” Her voice had grown commanding quickly, and it didn’t sit well with him. He hadn’t been in the business of taking orders from angels for a little over six thousand years. Unless they asked very politely and that was still limited to one particular angel.

“ _Can’t_. Since he’s not _here_. I can take a message if you’d like,” his tone made it very clear he had no attention of passing along a message.

Michael didn’t respond and for a moment Crowley thought she’d given up, but, suddenly beside him, Aziraphale reached around him and pressed the speakerphone button.

“Hello?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley quickly moved to end the call before Aziraphale could hear Michael’s voice, but Aziraphale grabbed his wrist to stop him and Michael responded, “Principality Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale might’ve known the call was for him from the hushed way Crowley was refusing to acknowledge the presence of his company, but he hadn’t been expecting to hear that voice on the other end. His grip on Crowley’s hand tightened. “Archangel Michael. So good to hear from you. We missed you at my execution.”

“Yes, I had a conflicting appointment. I really do wish I could have seen it, since I can’t actually believe what I was told.” Crowley was very close to causing the phone to catch fire when Aziraphale cast him a look and he set the receiver down on the desk.

“Sure, I heard plenty about that. I’m sure you enjoyed your day trip to Hell, but pray tell, what were you told happened?”

Crowley wanted to be proud of Aziraphale for being snippy with Michael, but couldn’t help but feel he was just digging himself deeper into whatever this was.

“I heard you walked into Hell Fire then walked right back out again. Problem is, I checked the records. A couple times actually. You never followed in your friend’s footsteps—You never fell, Principality Aziraphale, not even in the last days of the world when you certainly should have.”

With a scowl, Aziraphale snapped, “Yes, yes, my Grace is still intact, still an angel. Is that what you called to ask?”

“What did you pull, Aziraphale.”

“Well, I didn’t pull an impromptu execution that wasn’t ordered from anyone actually in charge of that department—not once, and certainly not every time someone has made a fool of me.”

Crowley flinched as Aziraphale squeezed his wrist just a little too tight. Aziraphale noticed and let go immediately, turning towards him with a small frown and a whispered, “sorry.”

“’s okay,” Crowley whispered back and Michael sighed heavily.

“You were sentenced to death and yet walked out of heaven alive. I don’t care how you did it, you’re still wanted dead. Come visit me at head office, Aziraphale, or I’ll come to you. And given your present company, I don’t think you’d want that.” There was a meaningful pause that made Aziraphale stiffen, freezing in place. “Just know, there isn’t anywhere—not even his precious nebulas—that you can hide from me.”

The line went dead.

Aziraphale stood and Crowley was in front of him immediately. “No. Absolutely not, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale didn’t try to move. He wouldn’t meet Crowley’s eyes. His brow was furrowed in thought, and he just stood awkwardly between the desk and Crowley, waiting for the demon to step out of his way.

“Swap me back, I’ll go again—she just doesn’t believe it cause she didn’t see it. We can trick her as easy as we did Gabriel. Swap me back.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “She won’t try Hell Fire again, Crowley.”

“There’s no other way to—” Crowley trailed off. His heart dropped. “Who else has made a fool out of her?”

Aziraphale shifted. Looking about the office like he was looking for a way out, he said, “Archangels aren’t supposed to be in charge of executions. Powers are the ones responsible for maintaining order.” Rather than wringing his own hands nervously, he reached forward and took Crowley’s. “No Power has ever Fallen, but there’s one less Power now than there was at the creation of heaven. Michael is responsible for that.”

“Angel, you can’t seriously be thinking of going back.”

“You heard what she said. If I don’t—”

“She’ll come here. We can face her on home ground—together. You know you can’t go alone, you know that.”

“Crowley, in a fight… I couldn’t let you fight an Archangel, you know you wouldn’t survive.”

Crowley grimaced and pulled his hand away. “If I were still an angel I wouldn’t. But I’m not. The hierarchy doesn’t matter between angels and demons.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders sunk slightly. “It does. It still does, at least a bit. It’s too dangerous to let her come here. I have to go, Crowley.” He tried to push Crowley away, but not nearly hard enough and Crowley pushed back, pinning Aziraphale to the desk.

“You’re not leaving.”

“Crowley—”

“No! We fooled the rest of them, we can fool her too. You’re not just giving up. Not now, after everything—Christ, Aziraphale, not now.”

Aziraphale looked like he was going to fight Crowley on this, but let his shoulders fall. “Fine. We can come up with a plan,” he conceded, and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale already had a plan, and it very much didn’t include him.

Crowley sat in the living room, pouring over ideas for hours, not noticing that the heat had been shut off and the windows had been opened. He barely noticed when he began shivering, his attention consumed entirely by his nerves. He listed idea after idea, each of which Aziraphale shut down, gently with logical counterpoints and with his hand on Crowley’s knee.

It might’ve been frustration, the wine, or the cold, but halfway through the night, Crowley nodded off on the couch and woke with Aziraphale’s hands cupping his face. “Let’s get you to bed, dear.”

“Mmngh, no angel, we still gotta—”

“You can rest for a little bit at least. You need it, don’t you?” he said as though he hadn’t been responsible for dropping the temperature below what a certain cold-blooded demon could handle. And if the comforting hand on Crowley’s knee had zapped the rest of his heat, wearing him out even faster—well, there’s no way Aziraphale could have seen that coming.

“No, I’m,” Crowley let out a pent-up breath, rubbing his eyes, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not, Crowley. You know how tired wine makes you. Come now, I’ll wake you in a little bit.” He helped Crowley to his feet and they walked to the bedroom together—Crowley’s usual saunter had devolved to the point that he could barely walk in a straight line. Sitting him down on the edge of the bed, Aziraphale helped him out of his boots, his jeans, and the rest of the denim he was wearing.

“You’ll come get me soon?” Crowley asked, looking at him with eyes gone entirely yellow, too tired to keep up appearances. It was such a soft look, that it hurt. “You’ll wake me soon?”

“Of course, dear,” he lied, pulling the comforter up over Crowley’s shoulders. With a snap, the lamp turned off and Crowley was asleep within minutes.

He was still for a while, but soon broke into motion, closing the windows and lowering the dark drapes. Crowley had bought them special for when he wanted to sleep for months at a time. No sunlight made it into the room when they were drawn, and Crowley wasn’t going to wake up so long as the room stayed cold and dark and quiet enough. If Aziraphale didn’t come back, he might sleep all the way through winter until spring began heating up the apartment once again—but Crowley would be much angrier about other things than about sleeping through the cold winter months.

All the while, Aziraphale was trying to convince himself that Crowley would do the same thing in his position—only he couldn’t. Crowley had never lied to him—he’d exaggerated stories, stretched the truth, and undersold the tasks he passed off to Aziraphale in the days of the Arrangement, but he had never once _intentionally_ deceived Aziraphale (since they had decided losing track of the antichrist hadn’t _really_ been his fault).

Soon though, morning was bearing in and Aziraphale decided he had to stop feeling bad, and start focusing. He’d set wards around his shop before, even occasionally around Crowley’s flat, but he’d never set a ward with this purpose before, nor one anywhere near this powerful. Still, he didn’t have much time to spare. Energy flowed from him slowly, filling the room, creeping up the walls, seeping into the floor, forming an invisible barrier in front of the open door. It wasn’t until he was done that he saw Crowley stirring—the celestial energy in the air certainly disturbing him.

Aziraphale cursed under his breath. He didn’t practice these often enough to try to keep it as close to the walls as he needed it to be. A moment of focus steadied the ward and gave Crowley more breathing room, and left Aziraphale hoping he’d been quick enough that Crowley wasn’t fully awake. He swallowed and leaned forward, setting his knee on the bed to lean in and run his hand through Crowley’s hair. “So sorry, dear. Little bit of a slip up, was just trying to perform a little miracle. Didn’t hurt you, did I?” He spoke softly, doing his best to lull Crowley back to sleep.

“Mmnnh,” Crowley groaned, burying his face back into the pillow. That _Mmnnh_ meant no, Aziraphale concluded, fondness rising in his throat as Crowley began to drift back into sleep. He pulled the comforter back over him, leaned a kiss into his temple and received an “Mmh,” in response.

“Back soon, dear,” he said, and wished he sounded more convincing. Crowley’s eyes opened slightly at the news that Aziraphale was leaving, but he couldn’t draw himself out of bed. It wasn’t until Aziraphale had already pushed himself up and was making to close the door behind him that Crowley remembered why Aziraphale leaving was a very bad thing.

“Angel!” he shouted, suddenly very awake and jumping out of bed to catch the door handle before Aziraphale could close it entirely. He’d managed to pull it with enough force to startle Aziraphale into letting go. The door flew back open but Crowley jumped backwards, startled at the spark of pain that had shot up his arm.

Aziraphale was frozen in the doorway, and when Crowley looked back at him, he felt dread course through him at the torn look the angel was wearing. Aziraphale shook himself from it quickly and stepped back through the door. “Are you alright?” He reached for Crowley’s hand gently and Crowley let him take it, but narrowed his eyes, watching Aziraphale closely.

“Aziraphale,” he said, trying and failing to get Aziraphale to meet his eyes. “What was that?”

“What was what, darling?” Aziraphale’s voice was higher than it should have been, and he patted Crowley’s hand softly before taking a few steps forward and walking Crowley backwards until he sat down on the bed. “I didn’t mean to wake you, but everything’s perfectly alright. Go back to sleep.”

Crowley took a moment to look around, feeling anxiety rising in his chest when he noticed the curtains drawn and the room nearly black except for the faintest glow of the walls only visible if he focused hard enough. He caught the chain of Aziraphale’s pocket watch when he tried to step away. He opened his mouth to say something but had no idea what. He just looked at Aziraphale, wondering what he’d have to do or how tight he’d have to hold to keep Aziraphale from leaving.

Aziraphale could see the desperation in Crowley’s eyes but just ran his hands through Crowley’s hair, held on tight and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t go. Angel, you can’t go.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

“You won’t, angel. You—”

Aziraphale started pulling away and Crowley tried to hold him back, with anything he could. But he couldn’t bring his power to the tips of his fingers. The walls glowed brighter and Crowley felt himself begin to shake from exertion. Aziraphale pulled away with ease and Crowley surged forward before he could pass through the doorway, grabbing onto his lapels.

“Please let go,” Aziraphale said, as calmly as he could, but his voice was shaking. They could both hear it.

“No!” Crowley yelled, his fear snapping inside of him. He held on tight, and when Aziraphale tried to push him away, Crowley turned them around so Aziraphale was pushing him against the door. Well, the open doorway guarded by the ward, which burned Crowley’s shoulders through his thin tank top. He hissed and Aziraphale quickly pulled him away.

“Crowley, please!” Aziraphale cried. “Please stop, I have to go!”

“No, you don’t! She’s going to kill you!”

Aziraphale jerked back before Crowley could grab onto him again and stepped easily through the ward and into the hallway. “I’ll come back.”

Crowley stepped towards him and set his hand against the ward. It burned but he held it there, holding Aziraphale’s gaze while Aziraphale flinched.

“Stop it.” Aziraphale was wringing his hands in front of him. He wouldn’t leave, there was no way. He’d never had that kind of resolve when it came to Crowley (who was steadfastly ignoring the fact that Aziraphale looked just like he did in the bandstand when his resolve really did hold up when it came to Crowley). His eyes were glassy as he shouted, “Stop it! Step back!”

“Take down the ward.”

“No!”

“Take it down, and let me out, angel!” He placed his other hand on the barrier and it sparked with the conflict of energies.

“No!”

Aziraphale looked so close to breaking, if Crowley just pushed a little harder— “Just let me out, we can fix this together.” His hands were burning and he had to close his eyes for just a second to breathe through it, and when he opened them, Aziraphale was gone. “No, no! _Fuck!_ Aziraphale!”

He pushed harder against the ward and it pushed harder against him, burning until blood began to trickle down his wrists. It burned like nothing else, but he couldn’t find it in him to pull away. Aziraphale had left. Aziraphale trapped him in his own bedroom—locked him away with his powers gone under the force of the spell. Aziraphale was facing _heaven_ , alone, and _Aziraphale_ was _going to get himself killed._

And a ward—an angelic ward meant for keeping demons where they needed to be, that wouldn’t break for the damned, no matter how strong they were—wasn’t going to be enough to keep Crowley from stopping that.

Aziraphale had only managed to miracle himself outside of Crowley’s flat in the moment Crowley had looked away—now he was leaned against the wall trying his best not to cry. Oh, Crowley would never forgive him for this. If this all went south, he would die with Crowley angry at him. At this point, with Crowley having been at the center of his life in the months after Armageddon, he couldn’t think of a worse way to go.

But he’d made up his mind. He wasn’t letting Crowley out until he’d assured his freedom from heaven. Or until he disappeared for good, taking all his magic along with him.

Well, he supposed he just couldn’t let Michael stop him from returning. He rubbed his face and took a deep breath. A second later he was standing at the base of the staircase that led up to heaven’s head office. He was about to start upwards when a voice came from behind him. “Aziraphale.” He looked over his shoulder and saw Uriel, dressed in her white suit with her head held high, now standing between him and the exit. “We didn’t think you’d come.”

“Well. You’ve underestimated me before,” he replied, trying to muster even half the courage it had taken him to leave Crowley behind.

“Don’t worry. We’re prepared for you this time.” She nodded towards the stairs and he unclenched his fists and fixed his tie before turning around and beginning to climb, Uriel right behind him.

When they reached the top, he paused to try to catch his breath, but Uriel pushed him forwards and led him through the bright, empty hallways. There was nothing but white light outside of the windows to his left and he had to think it was far less pleasant than the smell of exhaust and sounds of people that drifted into his shop off the streets of Soho.

“There he is, the Principality Aziraphale,” Gabriel stood in the center of a room that had a scorched ring on the floor and a faint lingering of Crowley’s presence perhaps no one could pick up on besides Aziraphale. This is where they’d tried to kill him the first time.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale said without his customary nod of feigned politeness. Instead he looked towards Michael. Standing a few paces behind Gabriel, she was smiling like getting Aziraphale to head office through threatening Crowley was a great accomplishment. News flash, Michael. Anyone could do that. Only idiots actually would.

“You don’t look too happy to see us,” Gabriel said, and Aziraphale snapped his gaze back to him.

“Why don’t we just get on with this,” he snapped. “Where’s Sandalphon?”

“You did give us quite the fright last time you were here. He decided not to attend.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said curtly. Not that he thought Sandalphon would cause much trouble if he were there—Aziraphale just didn’t like him. “Well. You had your shot at a clean execution last time. You missed it.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and focused in on a sword sitting in a box in a delivery man’s closet. When he opened his eyes it was in his hand, and Uriel and Gabriel looked uneasy. Michael didn’t flinch. “Now if you want me dead, you’re going to have to earn it.”

There was a moment of hesitation before the archangels drew their own weapons.

Aziraphale’s sword lit up with a holy flame and then they were upon each other. Uriel and Michael dodged to the sides as Gabriel came at him from the middle.

Since the creation of the earth, Aziraphale had been a guardian. But before the earth was created, he’d been a warrior.

Still, there was three of them and Aziraphale only had two eyes in this form, so his back was open. He landed hits on Michael and Gabriel, but Uriel was quicker, was behind him more, landing blows on his back and arms that drew golden blood. Though Aziraphale’s sword dealt far more damage, even if he didn’t manage as many strikes.

Soon though, he’d made too many mistakes and allowed them to back him into a corner, and Michael knocked the sword from his hand, pinning his arm to the wall with her blade pressed against the inside of his forearm. Gabriel was clutching at his own arm, bleeding heavily, and Uriel was busy healing a gash in her side, but Michael was focused in on him, ignoring the blood streaking her face.

“Looks like we get a second chance at your execution after all,” she said, voice low and malicious. Then, she began reaching inside of her suit and Aziraphale, knowing what she had planned for him, jerked forward suddenly to reach for his sword. She pushed the blade in deeper into his arm, with such force that it slid entirely between the bones in his arm cracked into the wall behind him, nailing him into place. He whined in pain, suddenly feeling a lot more sympathy for the Messiah, and he’d already had plenty of sympathy for that poor fellow.

Michael then pulled out a sword much longer and far more golden than her original blade. One that had belonged to the Power Rachmiel, the angel who had never fallen, but disappeared from heaven nonetheless. The only thing besides Hell Fire that could actually kill an angel.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. “We still believe in death with dignity. Hold your head higher. At least look presentable for this.”

Aziraphale straightened his back, and looked Michael in the eyes. “One day, you might find yourself on the other side of this sword,” he said. An ache filled his heart when he thought of how Crowley would feel when the ward faded and he was left with an empty apartment and the knowledge that Aziraphale had failed to return, and never would. “When that day comes, I hope you know you brought it on yourself for murdering your own siblings.”

“Oh, I don’t think heaven will care much that I killed you.”

Aziraphale wanted to believe she was lying, but he had been on earth for so long, he doubted many of the heavenly host remembered him. Heaven wouldn’t care much.

The earth would care, he liked to think. He had been there since the beginning, after all.

As Aziraphale prepared himself for the blade to pierce his heart, a shadow swept through the hallway. Uriel and Gabriel looked towards the wall of windows, and Michael and Aziraphale broke eye contact as the pane began to crack.

The terrible sound of claws pressing against glass made Michael grind her teeth, and she looked away, shielding her eyes when the glass finally shattered. Slowly and with a great effort, a creature—the likes of which Aziraphale had never seen—climbed inside and spread its wings, blocking out the light and filling the room entirely with its presence. Aziraphale swallowed and felt logically that he should be afraid, should be ripping the blade from his arm and stepping away from the window and closer to the archangels, the seemingly lesser of the two threats, but his instinct gave him no such urge towards flight.

Instead he held his ground and watched as the creature rose to tower over him. Its wings were black where they began behind its shoulder blades, but tapered slowly to a pure white at the ends of the feathers, with sulfur rising from where the white and black warred. A crackling fire burned in the palm of one hand, but the other three dripped golden energy from the palms down to the long, sharp fingernails.

Aziraphale, aside from Crowley’s first appearance as the serpent of Eden, had never seen a demon’s true form before, but given that Satan himself wasn’t nearly as terrific as this creature, left Aziraphale sure that this being wasn’t a demon. At least not entirely a demon. In fact, it looked all too similar to Aziraphale’s own form.

However, the torso of the thing was speckled with familiar black scales, trailing from its neck down to and underneath the torn garments that somewhat resembled a heavenly robe had that robe been singed through by a golden fire. Above where the scales stopped at its cheeks, its face was nothing but shadow hidden by the hood of the robe, but in the center, its eyes burned an unimaginable yellow, with an undeniable recognition. “Crow...ley?” Aziraphale asked quietly. Even in a situation like this, even if no part of him was the same but his eyes—Aziraphale would know him.

The golden eyes narrowed and his mouth opened to reveal a python’s fangs as he hissed, “ ** _Angel_.**”

Michael uncovered her face when she heard the creature speak in a voice that shook the ground. “There’s no way,” Michael said. She didn’t even know what she wanted to say besides _there’s just no way_.No way a demon could physically break his way into heaven, no way he could command the holy energy resting in his hands and coursing through the wings on the backs of the three holy arms, no way the thing standing before them was a demon.

“ **Is there?** ” the Crowley-adjacent creature asked through inhuman fangs that gnashed and drew dark blood from a mostly human mouth. “ **Is there** ,” he flared his wings, feathers falling to the floor as they conflicted over which nature to take and sulfur turning to a golden dust in the air, “ ** _no_ way?**” He took a step forward and Michael threw herself back, drawing her own wings. “ **Afterall, we are from...** ” he had to pause to grin at the fear that rose the feathers along Michael’s wings. “ **the same original stock.** ”

The voice he spoke with was nothing like his own, but the way hissed the _s_ at the beginning and he cracked the _k_ at the end of his words was Crowley through and through.

“How?” Aziraphale heard himself ask. He was feeling out for the ward he’d placed on Crowley’s flat. If it had been broken, he would’ve noticed—as it was, none of the energy he’d put into it had returned to him. Yet here Crowley was. “How did you get out?”

Crowley had begun to slink towards Michael, facing his back to Aziraphale so he could see the black veins bulging on his back and forcing golden blood from the burns on his shoulders. Though there was no grace at his core that could be producing the golden blood.

“What have you done to yourself?”

Crowley wasn’t paying Aziraphale attention. He was closing in on Michael. Michael drew her sword and pointed it at the center of Crowley’s chest. Gabriel and Uriel still held onto their own blades, but had the distinct feeling that they wouldn’t work on this creature that wasn’t entirely Crowley. Neither of them moved to help Michael, but Uriel did glance towards the still flaming sword just out of reach at Aziraphale’s feet.

“Answer him, demon!” Michael shouted.

“Put the sword away, Michael!” Aziraphale tried talking down the archangel, but that only caused Crowley’s grin to grow. He turned around slowly, raising himself to his full height, nearly twice as tall as Aziraphale in this form. He cocked his head at Aziraphale and raised three of his hands—the three dripping with angelic blood. The blade still run entirely through Aziraphale’s arm disintegrated.

“ **Not possible for a demon to force his way through a ward, is it?** ”

“It shouldn’t have been!” Aziraphale cried, bringing his arm to his chest and holding the puncture wound tightly. He wished he understood what had caused this blended form, neither demonic nor celestial but a clashing, unstable mix of the two. He also wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“ **I was Hers before I was anything.** ”

Aziraphale wanted to respond that he knew, that _of course, Crowley. You’re God’s creation, I’ve always known, but what does that mean? What are you now?_ But Michael interrupted him.

“She abandoned you,” Michael said from behind Crowley. “You aren’t Hers anymore.” She still held the sword of the Power Rachmiel, but couldn’t seem to bring herself to bring it down upon him, not sure if it would work and not wanting to flip over her last card only to realize it was the Joker. Crowley turned back to Michael, barely spared a glance at the stolen sword, and lowered himself to meet Michael’s eyes.

“ **I was Hers,** ” he repeated, hiss sharper than before, words cutting deeper than before. “ **Before I was His. That can’t be changed. She can disown me, but She can’t erase Herself from me. Not completely.** ” He grabbed the Power’s sword. The execution sword wasn’t something he could destroy, but he took it from Michael easily and tossed it aside. Then he reached forward with one holy hand, and took Michael by the throat. “ **So. You’re probably wondering. If he can do this. I wonder what else he can do.** ”

They were words Crowley hadn’t expected to mean much beyond a vague threat but caused Michael’s eyes to open wide with fear and she clutched Crowley’s wrist to hold on as he lifted her in the air. He hadn’t known it was the same line Aziraphale had delivered as him when he proved himself immune to holy water.

“ **It’s time to leave him be. It’s time to leave _us_ be**.” He dropped Michael to the ground. “ **There are no more warnings, Archangel Michael. You set foot on earth, you come anywhere near him, and I will destroy you.** ” He stepped away from her and glanced to Uriel who was kneeling to pick up Aziraphale’s sword. When Crowley locked eyes with her, she stood back up, leaving the sword alone. “ **No one—no angel, Power, Dominion, Seraphim—none of you will come anywhere near him.** **Or you will see what I am capable of.** ”

Without looking away from the two archangels, he held a bloody and golden hand out to Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s hesitation lasted only a second, and was caused not by fear of Crowley’s form, but by his wondering if he should say something to the archangels before leaving. He decided he’d much rather have his questions answered than stick around to deliver a smart line that might make him feel proud for a moment then immediately ashamed afterwards; so, he picked up his sword, crossed the hall and he took Crowley’s hand. What felt like his own power rushed through him at the contact and in a split second he was back in Crowley’s flat, doubled over from the shock to his system.

They were inside Crowley’s bedroom, and the ward was certainly gone. Not broken, but gone. He looked towards Crowley for an explanation and found him on his back on the ground. He was much closer to his own size now, and his hood had fallen back to reveal an anguished look in his eyes. “Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, kneeling beside him. “Dear Lord, what’s happened to you? Are you alright? _Look_ at me, Crowley.”

Crowley reached out and, with the hand that had held Hell Fire but was now extinguished, grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist. “Take it,” he forced out. There was power swelling in his hand, but Aziraphale held it at bay, not sure what Crowley meant.

“Take what?” he asked and moved to lift Crowley’s head from the floor with his other hand. His fingers brushed the small wings jutting from the back of his neck and Crowley groaned. “Where did these come from?” Aziraphale asked slowly, but he’d already begun to piece it together. Both he and Crowley knew how sensitive the wings on the back of Aziraphale’s neck were when he wore his true form, and that even a gentle ruffling of the feathers there would make his toes curl. So, running his hand through the charred feathers at the nape of Crowley’s neck and watching his reaction made Aziraphale certain—

“They’re yours,” he bit out. “Take them back, please.” He reached up with his other three hands, gripping at Aziraphale everywhere he could reach, and the angelic power flowed from his fingertips and this time Aziraphale let it. _This_ is what the breaking of the ward should’ve felt like, a rush of his expended power coming back to him all at once, a surge of celestial energy coursing through him. He just closed his eyes and let it all come back, holding up Crowley’s head so that when he collapsed, his head didn’t hit the modern, concrete floor.

When all of the ward’s energy returned to him and Crowley went limp, Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath and opened his eyes. The rush of power had healed his cuts and the wound that had run his arm all the way through, but had left Crowley barely conscious. 

“That was incredibly dangerous,” he whispered, leaning in to cover Crowley’s head with his own body, curl in around him just to feel like he was doing something to help. “That could’ve killed you, Crowley.”

It took him a long moment, but soon he tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s arms with the two hands he had left and said, entirely under his breath, no rumble in his chest, “They could’ve killed you. Especially with all the energy you expended on that _fucking_ ward.” ‘Fucking’ wasn’t so much emphasized as just breathed out with as much force as he could muster, which was significantly less than he’d been hoping for.

“It needed to be strong enough to hold you,” Aziraphale said. Crowley grinned even though Aziraphale hadn’t meant it as a joke. “How did you do that, Crowley. I know that She made you, but no other demon would’ve survived that.”

“No other demons know an angel who’d trap them within a warded area rather than out”

“That alone wouldn’t make it possible.” Aziraphale’s voice had grown sharper, so Crowley dropped his grin and let Aziraphale sit him up.

“A demon can’t make it through a ward that powerful. So, way I saw it, I had two options. Break the ward, or stop being a demon.”

“You can’t stop being a demon, Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted, not angry so much as confused and frustrated and, alright, a little angry that Crowley had risked his life to escape this room then brought them immediately back once he was done risking his life.

“Nah. But I could start being angel enough to pass through. More power I took from the ward, weaker it got, easier it was to get through. Sure, no other demon could get through. No other demon made it through the M25 during Armageddon.”

“What, your imagination let you absorb that much celestial energy without destroying yourself?!”

Crowley flinched slightly when Aziraphale raised his voice and shook his head. “More determination than imagination.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders finally began to lower and he sighed, pulling Crowley closer to him. “The third option would have been to stay put.”

“That was never on the table for me, angel.”

Aziraphale leaned into Crowley until his head was resting on Crowley’s shoulder. He’d gotten his answer, but it hadn’t satisfied him—just made the ache in his chest grow. “Why is it always you coming to rescue me? Why couldn’t I keep you safe just this once?” His voice had drifted to a whisper, his eyes closed as he held tighter onto Crowley’s shoulders. “Why did you risk your life to escape the ward?”

“I didn’t think of it as risking my life. I told myself I could bear just about anything for as long as it takes to get to you. That’s the only reason I made it through the M25, only way I was able to hold the Bentley together. You asked me to meet you at the airbase, so I was going to make it to the airbase.”

“I asked you to stay put today. You don’t always do what I ask.”

“Sometimes you ask for stupid things.”

Aziraphale sighed one more time. “I guess I do, don’t I.” He pulled back away to take Crowley’s face in his hands and look him in the eye. “But you’re really okay? It really didn’t hurt you?”

“Ah. Hurt like heaven at the time. Not anymore, though. I’m really okay. Just. Worn out.”

Crowley closed his eyes and leaned into it when Aziraphale’s nails ran over the back of his neck. “Finally know why you like that as much as you do,” he grinned holding Aziraphale’s hands where they were against his neck.

Aziraphale flushed. “Ha ha,” he deadpanned, then stood and pulled Crowley to his feet, nudging him until he fell back into bed. “Come on. I know how tired wine makes you,” he said softly.

Crowley smiled at him indulgently, but crawled under the covers anyways. “Don’t think you’re forgiven, angel. You know you can’t just make me sleep through things whenever you want me out of the way.”

Aziraphale sat down beside him, hand in his hair, thumb running over the tattoo beside his ear. “Ah, it’s good thing I want you in the way most of the time, then.”

“You’ll wake me soon?”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale said in all honesty.

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley: you’re stupid. I like that in a man.  
> he's the real morosexual.
> 
> This ended up much longer than I was expecting, but i had to give it my best shot! Thanks for reading, and you can find me on tumblr at tsukishiima-kei ;D


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